


give me a moment so devoted

by volchitsae



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Immortality, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:48:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28321146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volchitsae/pseuds/volchitsae
Summary: “When were you going to send that letter in which you tell me youlove me?” Sakusa demands. He immediately winces right after and flushes, because a few people look over at him from the volume and the tone of his voice.“Sometime in the 1850’s, but there’s more where that came from. Every decade since, at least,” Atsumu chirps back.-The thing no one ever talks about when it comes to immortality is the paperwork.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 58
Kudos: 398





	give me a moment so devoted

The thing no one ever talks about when it comes to immortality is the paperwork.

Sakusa is currently seated in a taxi in Washington, D.C., on his way to the Smithsonian American Art Museum, in search of letters that may be on display in an exhibit.

There’s an explanation for it, of course.

It starts with this: He’s immortal. He’s known it since he got a knife through his abdomen and his body healed too quickly to be human.

There’s a bit more to the explanation, but let it be known that Sakusa Kiyoomi, immortal, is nothing if not meticulous.

Take a look at his family tree. He’s posing as a descendant of himself and has gone through various fake names, adding to his fabricated family tree throughout the centuries and keeping a low profile as he – and his, er, ancestors – live dull lives and die in their sleep every 80 to 90 years.

Everything’s online now, which is amazing, as much as Sakusa misses certain languages or cuisines from centuries ago. He’s really good at fabricating documents now with so much practice. This means he doesn’t have to go in person to prove much in terms of identity when he’s got the paperwork to prove it.

He could probably go into illegal business for it, if he’s honest with himself; he’s got a bunch of birth, wedding, and death certificate templates and could really make some decent cash. He’s even fabricated some university degrees which hang on his walls. Does it matter _when_ he took calculus? It’s been the same since it and its components were invented somewhere in between the 14th and 17thcenturies.

No, instead of mass illegal document fabrication, Sakusa gets with the times, settles in a comfortable flat in Tokyo, and works from home managing security firewalls for some major online shopping websites. Most of his job is swearing at code and he definitely does it more than he has any functional code. He wants a dog, but in the then times you could just feed a dog on the street and it’d be yours; nowadays there’s licensing and a paper trail and he has a hard enough time keeping track of his _own_ identity, much less others attached to his name.

Except one person.

Miya Atsumu. 

Sakusa considers himself generally on the side of the law, but good Lord, does he want to commit murder when Atsumu’s involved. Murder wouldn’t even work, because he’s immortal too. But he’s the reason Sakusa has travelled across the ocean from Tokyo to Washington and is also subsequently contemplating chaining Atsumu to a rock to get his liver picked out by an eagle every day.

Atsumu’s lost a bunch of personal postage and God knows how or why. It’s not a new phenomenon, him losing important documents, and Atsumu is probably the only other immortal that knows Sakusa’s talents at tracking documents and forging them – Atsumu tends to think less about paperwork than Sakusa does (so about as much as the average person, aka, only thinking of paperwork when they really need to and with a fair amount of exasperation).

As reckless as Atsumu is about his identity as an immortal being found out, Sakusa trusts he won’t rat him out as a document forger. Sakusa’s not met very many immortals. He’d count Osamu as another person, but otherwise, he thinks any others out there are like him – laying low.

The thing about immortality is the quieter you are, the less likely you’re going to be discovered by some bumbling historian snooping around in your shit. Sakusa doesn’t even have any of the face recognition technology his phone boasts turned on and is always out and about with a mask on to obscure the majority of his face.

Paranoid? Sure. In this day and age, Sakusa covets his privacy and autonomy more than anything. He wishes Atsumu would be a little more mindful, but he’s _easy_ when it comes to Atsumu, ready to pull him out of whatever pool he’s jumped into. 

Case in point: his excursion to the capital of America starts with a phone call.

“Omi-Omi,” Atsumu says, before Sakusa even says hello.

Sakusa’s mouth tilts up into a smile despite his efforts to prevent it. “I’m good, how are you, Atsumu? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Atsumu snorts. “Ever constant with the etiquette, Omi-kun. Glad you’re well; I’ve been goin’ through some of my belongings – ”

“Took you long enough,” Sakusa replies. “Belongings in which house of yours, now? What country are you in?”

“Japan,” Atsumu says, miffed. “I’m about one train ride away from you, asshole.”

“I’ll watch my tongue so you don’t have a reason to visit.” Sakusa props his chin in one hand and stares out the window, wondering which building within view might be Atsumu’s. “I wanted to check; last time I had to go to Egypt to get those Euros you stashed there after figuring out your bank records, why the hell would you leave Euros at a bank in Egypt?”

“I needed to store my cash before I went to hang out in the desert! It was – ”

“ – the right thing to do,” both of them say in unison. Sakusa makes him recount this story every time Atsumu calls because it’s hilarious. Atsumu got stuck in a tree and hung out with some curious cheetahs for a terrifying 20 minutes.

“The right thing to do would be to ask for a _receipt_ after depositing money.”

“I thought you said you’d watch your tongue, Omi-kun.”

“Sorry,” Sakusa says, and is not.

“You might need to travel again,” Atsumu continues, because he’s apparently decided not to bicker with Sakusa anymore in favour of business.

Sakusa groans. “Again? Plane tickets aren’t cheap.”

“I’ll foot the bill. It’s urgent.” The tone in his voice is serious. Sakusa drops all pretenses; if _Atsumu’s_ worried, then it’s basically catastrophic.

“How bad?” Sakusa is already opening his desktop folder titled ‘idiot’ to review its documents.

“Full name on the letters. I swear they were here, Omi-kun, but there’s a chunk between 1850 and 1950 that I can’t find.”

“Shit,” Sakusa says, and Atsumu’s laugh across the line is humourless.

“Yeah. It’s a broad timespan, too, ‘m worried any museum scientists would carbon date my pen ink or somethin’. Is that possible?”

“I guess? Pen has organic compounds, those have carbon.”

“Look at you, genius. Chemistry your hobby too?”

“I’m not going to make any drugs for you.”

“Worth a shot. D’you think they could get my DNA from the letters?”

“With the sequencing and DNA ancestry nowadays, maybe. I don’t know if they would get anything out of it, though, other than another DNA sample.”

“I’ll try not to worry ‘bout it, but I had a nightmare the other day about a clone of myself bein’ made with that DNA. Can y’imagine, Omi-Omi? Another one of me?”

“One’s enough.”

“’Xactly. There can only be one and you’d have to make the choice and kill the clone.”

“How would I know which one, then?”

“Cheetahs,” Atsumu says, and they both crack up at the Egypt fiasco again.

Sakusa twirls a pen in his fingers. “What else is in the letters?”

“Oh, that’s none of your business,” Atsumu says, light and airy, and Sakusa knows immediately the letters are of an intimate nature. He’d meant what other kinds of possible identity compromising information, but now his chest is kind of tight.

“I meant what other kinds of possible compromising information,” he says, glad his voice is steady.

“Probably plenty of detail about compromisin’ _positions_ , Omi-kun, but I can’t really remember.”

Sakusa huffs and does not think about Atsumu in a bed, head thrown back to expose his neck. “I thought you said it was none of my business. You’ll email me the details?”

“Yessir,” Atsumu says. “Thank you, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa does not acknowledge the uncharacteristic gratitude because it burns straight through him, drying his throat. He says goodbye and they hang up.

And now, after weeks of research and calls and _so many_ emails, this goose chase has led him to the Smithsonian Art Museum in America.

Sakusa muses on how he and Atsumu met as he watches the city pass by the taxi window. They first met somewhere in the 2nd century AD as gladiators in Ancient Rome. Sakusa was captured as a prisoner of war – before modern technology, he often chose quiet towns to live in, working on farms where no one questioned who you were; just whether you could do the work. The whims of conquerors and historians redrawing country borders did not affect daily life as much as one would expect.

Atsumu tells him he’s a freedman: choosing to fight for fame and glory in the gladiator games. They both see each other at the feast after one such bout of games and approach each other as if they can read each other’s minds.

“You should have died from that bull goring you,” Sakusa says, as a greeting. He lets his eyes linger on the tanned skin and the cloth stretching across broad shoulders.

“ _You_ shoulda’ died from that lance in your stomach,” says Atsumu, gaze as heavy as Sakusa’s own, and they clink their chalices and drink when they both understand they’re of the same kind.

Atsumu’s been in Sakusa’s hair since. Where Sakusa is cool and as still as lake that watches towns rise and fall around it, Atsumu blazes through life as if he has nothing to lose. It’s essentially true.

“OMIOMI WHERE TO FIND LOST ID STOP. SATURDAY KYOTO TRAIN STATION STOP,” is a telegram Sakusa has pinned to a bulletin board because it makes him laugh for some unexplainable reason.

“Omi-kun,” Sakusa hears, giddily over the very first telephones. “I’ve fucked up my ledgers. Bank’s on my case. Help?”

“With love from Paris, Omi-Omi! I’d eat escargot in your honour, but I lost my passport.”

“Do you mean you actually never travelled with it in the first place?”

“I never said _when_ I lost it. But you’re right, as always. I’m stuck here in the City of Love now. Couldja’ magic up another passport for me?”

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu mutters, through a mouth full of blood as he sways on Sakusa’s doorstep from one too many underground dealings. “First aid kit?”

They’ve known each other for a long time, Sakusa realizes, squinting up at skyscraper. And Sakusa’s known he’s been in love with Atsumu for about as long as he’s been immortal.

The thing about immortality is that nothing is sure. Contracts written and sealed with blood are burned. Pacts are made between people who turn on each other anyway. Promises made are forgotten a century later.

And the most significant promise of all – love – is just too big to make.

Sakusa makes it anyway.

“I love you.” It is 1783, and they have slipped away from hustle and bustle of the mid-autumn festival in China. The moonlight cuts through the trees and moves in patterns on the ground. Atsumu is resplendent in his robes as they stand in a garden next to a pond nearly overflowing with koi and lilypads, and Sakusa does not miss the flush in his cheeks when Atsumu’s head whips to face him.

“Would you allow me to devote myself to you?” It is 1855 in a field God knows where in England and rain clouds threaten to pour. The wind howling across the field nearly carries Sakusa’s voice along with it, and Atsumu’s messily tied ascot shifts when he swallows, rendered speechless.

“Stay,” Sakusa murmurs, into the sweat dampening the skin behind Atsumu’s ear. They’re at a lavish American party in the 1920’s, liquor flowing faster than the rivers and people dancing even faster than that. Sakusa and Atsumu are swaying in the center of it slowly, completely off tempo, taking a moment to catch their breaths.

“I love you, Atsumu. Stay with me.”

Atsumu always has the same expression when Sakusa tells him and makes promises of _you and me, forever_. His eyes are always wide, always too bright, always with a guarded sheen that disguises the hope there.

And as always, Atsumu disappears. Into the crowd, into the night, across oceans, wherever, disappearing until he wants to be found again and reaches out to Sakusa. Sakusa never knows where he goes and never tries to follow.

Sakusa’s known it then and he knows it now.

There’s always something about Miya Atsumu that means he would never stay.

* * *

Sakusa arrives at the Smithsonian and purchases a ticket for the exhibit titled _Love Through the Ages_. He recalls the way Atsumu said “none of your business” and figures it makes sense he’d end up looking for love letters. All types of correspondence, literature, and artwork are on display to showcase the expression of love and romance throughout human history. He wanders a little bit, taking genuine interest in some fancy sonnets and paintings, admiring the detail in statues depicting lovers in an embrace. He’s going to get his money’s worth from making a trip all the way to America for some letters.

When he comes upon the display of Atsumu’s letters he almost doesn’t realize they’re what he’s looking for. Something seems familiar about the handwriting even in the multiple languages they are written in, after years of looking through Atsumu’s papers. Sakusa flicks a glance at the plaque explaining the display.

_A series of letters across a century’s time (approx. 1850’s to 1950’s) from Miya Atsumu, in various languages and dates. Translators have provided English captions below each letter._

Atsumu did tell him that his identity was compromised, but to see it in person churns worry and dread in Sakusa’s stomach, nonetheless. His _entire name_ is on those letters. Sure, there’s probably many people throughout the years with the same name, but you can never be too careful. Sakusa’s thoughts rush and flood over one another as he comes up with and casts away solutions and plans to keep Atsumu as anonymous as possible. Because he has nothing else to look at, he stares at the letters and tries to think, but his attention is caught when he sees _Omi-kun_ in one of them.

He sees _Omi-kun_ , _Omi-Omi_ , and _Kiyoomi_ in all of them, actually.

Sakusa’s heart gives a fearful thump. Has his identity been compromised as well? He wasn’t going to read the letters to respect Atsumu’s privacy, only searching to confirm where they are and do damage control later, but now his identity is involved so he _has_ to read them.

They’re probably public domain by now. Museums know about copyright shit, don’t they? Things become part of the public domain like a hundred years or so after the author’s death. If they’re displaying the letters now, they must be public property, despite Atsumu being alive. On the other hand, many museums are basically composed of artifacts stolen from other countries, so perhaps going by their standards might not actually mean anything.

Everyone in this room’s read them, so he can too. It’s a public display – emphasis on the _public_.

He’s not curious. He’s _not_. It’s about Atsumu’s safety, and Sakusa’s now, as well.

Sakusa shakes his head at himself because _who the fuck does he think he’s fooling_ and begins to read.

The letters are often random musings, almost like journal entries, but they’re addressed to him. He’s never received a long letter from Atsumu before. Sakusa skims each one for sentences that mention his name.

_1855: In time where Romanticism is at its peak, Kiyoomi manages to propose courtship without any embellishment or flowery additions. He’d be pleased to know it stole my breath anyway._

_1863: Impressionism is on its way up to the crowd. The style suits Omi-kun, I think; light, open, flowing movement. I don’t know why, because all those are opposites to the man himself. He’s just beautiful, same as these paintings._

_1879: The telephone’s been invented for years now and I still wonder if I should call him up sometimes. Wouldja be annoyed, Omi-Omi? Surprised he has a phone, old-fashioned git. I bet he’d take the piss about my current English accent. My favourite part’s the slang. Wanker._

_1887: Standing in the first manmade skyscraper, I still think about his confession during the mid-autumn festival. It felt like I was falling from a great height. Loving him feels like this – like staring out into the horizon, endless, terribly unsure of my footing, heart in my throat and over the railing if I'm not careful._

_1918: Would I ever see Kiyoomi on a battlefield? Would we be on opposite sides or the same? Could I bear it if he was on the opposite? Could I bear it if we hurt each other? Could I bear it if he died?_

_1925: Wish I said yes to one night with him during that dance at the mansion. I’m glad I didn’t because it would have never been just one night. I never would’ve been satisfied, and that’s why I need to stay away. There’s people to meet, places to see. I can’t get stuck._

_1943: This is probably too late to have an identity crisis, but I think Omi-kun would be proud of me for finally enjoying a quiet life. That man never changes. Should I call you, Kiyoomi? Just to talk, even when the only time I call you is for a favour? Even when you never try to find me after I leave you behind?_

_1950: He’s gotta know I love him, right?_

At the end of the display, another plaque is positioned next to the final letter.

_It is not known if Miya Atsumu and Kiyoomi ever reunited. There is no further correspondence between either of them and whether his feelings were reciprocated; but it is clear across a century of life and languages that his love was constant._

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Sakusa hisses, in English, because his brain is in English mode to read the display properly, and then gives a half-bow in apology to a nearby mother who glares at him while she cups her hands over her son’s ears. If there’s one thing that never changes through the years, it’s swear words.

He pulls out his phone and dials Atsumu, phone bill be damned, and takes a breather while the phone rings to remember to speak in Japanese. Sakusa could choose a different language – Arabic, French, Ancient Greek – but Atsumu said he was in Japan, and Sakusa’s gotten used to it after picking Tokyo as home.

When Atsumu picks up, Sakusa doesn’t give him a chance to speak.

“When were you going to send that letter in which you tell me you _love me?”_ he demands. He immediately winces right after and flushes, because a few people look over at him from the volume and the tone of his voice.

“Sometime in the 1850’s, but there’s more where that came from. Every decade since, at least,” Atsumu chirps back. 

Sakusa presses his pointer finger and thumb to his forehead and temple respectively. His heart and head pound in time, saying _he loves me he loves me he loves me_ , but as always, Sakusa turns to the more practical side of things.

He exhales a sharp breath through his nose. “Not only is the Smithsonian is convinced you’ve been pining for a practically a whole century, they’re trying to find out more about _you_ , it’s going to be incredibly hard to cover the tracks – ”

“T’be fair, I was also convinced.” Atsumu says it through a sigh, like he’s resigned to something. Sakusa swallows.

“What, that it’s been a century?” Sakusa’s eyes skip between the first and last letters on display.

Atsumu snorts. “I’m not _that_ bad at math. I can count years.”

“Then convinced of what?” Deep down, Sakusa knows. Pining is what he’s familiar with. He also knows it’s been more than a few decades since his rejected suit, that the sting should have subsided, but that’s the reason why he’s not going to be the one who says it first.

The thing about immortality is that you learn, eventually, what really matters in the face of infinite time.

The other thing about immortality is that you have the rest of eternity to be really fucking petty.

“C’mon, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu teases, and Sakusa can almost see it, the way Atsumu would lean back in his chair with the phone to his ear, a smirk tugging the corners of his lips up. “You have all the evidence right in front of ya in glass cases.”

Sakusa lifts his chin as if Atsumu can see the stubborn tilt of it. “They’re more careful than you’ve ever been with your belongings.”

“Well, I never thought they’d be treasured so much.”

 _I would have_ , Sakusa thinks, and the low, quick inhale Atsumu makes over the line makes him realize he’s said it out loud.

“Then I’m glad you’ve found ‘em, Omi-Omi.”

Sakusa’s brow furrows. There’s something in Atsumu’s tone that catches his ear, as if –

The world slows with his realization. “Did you,” he starts, “ _know_ that you lost these – these love letters? You said you didn’t know what the contents of the letters were.”

Time curls its way into the conversation, before Atsumu sighs gently.

“Guilty,” Atsumu says, and Sakusa’s mouth rushes ahead before his brain.

“You put me on a hunt to find love letters you wrote to me to tell me that you love me?”

Atsumu is just as quick. “What’s more romantic than love letters I donated to the museum immortalized in an exhibit for thousands to see?”

“You motherfucker _,_ ” Sakusa repeats, through gritted teeth, “You could have just _said something._ ” And saved a few decades of heartache, no less. “Also, museums are not immortal. _”_

“I’m a coward, Omi-kun,” Atsumu says, completely serious now. “It’s easier to handle rejection when I don’t hafta’ look you in the eye.”

“If I recall correctly, you rejected _me_.”

“And I’ve regretted it since. As you can tell. From th’ letters, I mean.” Sakusa can hear Atsumu swallow thickly over the line.

Sakusa’s pacing now, around the display. “This is kind of complicated for a confession, you know. Hiring me to search for your documents. I don’t know if that’s fiscally responsible if you do that for all your romantic interests.”

He hears an incredulous chuckle. “Are y’stalling?”

Sakusa stops and shifts on his feet, wanting to curse out loud because of course Atsumu can see right through him. He’s not stalling, he’s freaking out over the reciprocation of his feelings. It’s _different_.

“I’m just trying to look out for your spending habits.”

“I dunno if I’d even tip you for your services, Omi-kun. It took ya ages to track down my letters.”

“Excuse me? You’re the one with shitty leads. I performed a miracle to get to America.”

“Omi-kun, I’m _dyin’_ here.”

“You can’t die.”

“Wanna bet? Watch me be th' first. Miya Atsumu, immortal, dead via heartbreak.”

“You’re always trying to outdo yourself, huh?”

“It’d be the biggest headline on the newspapers.”

“On the internet, you mean. Who even reads newspapers anymore?”

“ _You,_ you fuckin’ _nerd_. S’like nothin’s changed between you in the 1800’s with a print by candlelight and a newspaper now in shitty fluorescent lights.”

“What do you have against fluorescent lights? They’re environmentally friendly and safer than candlelight.”

“Have you _seen_ you in candlelight?”

“Is this you _asking_ to see me in candlelight? Not many places do that anymore, it’s a fire hazard.”

There’s a pause that feels charged with electricity, as if their cellphones were connected by the millions of neurons prompting their hearts to beat.

Atsumu’s voice is quiet. “D’you love me, Omi-kun? ‘Cause I love you, if – if that’s all right with you. You n’ me, forever, like you promised. You can curse me for my timing all you like ‘cause I’d deserve it, but I haven’t got this wrong, have I? Even after everythin’?”

Sakusa’s eyelids flutter and he feels like his throat is closing. He has the irrational thought that _he_ might die. Sakusa Kiyoomi, immortal, dead from heart palpitations.

“I’m not sure you even deserve immortality if you think that I don’t love you,” is what Sakusa has to say to that, and the relieved, louder-than-life laugh Atsumu gives him makes Sakusa want to sprint out of the museum now and get back on a plane.

Sakusa breathes out slowly, instead. He lets the earth shift with this newfound development and stares at each of the letters on display without seeing them. He focuses on the way Atsumu makes an ugly snorting noise halfway through another laugh, and when his gaze hits the last letter of the display, he imagines more of them, hundreds and hundreds, stretching out into a timeline that neither of them have yet to conceive.

The thing about immortality is that it can get kind of lonely.

But Atsumu’s always been up for anything, and that in and of itself makes the rest of life look reasonably appealing.

“You said you had more letters from where these came from, didn’t you? You’re going to need to send them. _All_ of them, to make up for it,” Sakusa grouches, endlessly fond, which he knows Atsumu can hear over the line.

Atsumu sighs, happily. “We’re in the same city, Omi-Omi, what’s the point?”

_He followed me to America?_

“What’s a postage cost to love?” Sakusa shoots back.

“What’s a wasted amount of money on stamps when I could buy us dinner instead?”

“You’ve never bought dinner. Like, _ever_.”

“Well, _you’ve_ never tried that hot pot place that opened last week.”

“Last week is a blip on the radar compared to what we’ve lived.”

“It’s a pretty big blip on my radar right now because it’s really good. Are y’free?”

“Now?” He is, but he’s never going to make it easy for Atsumu.

“Yeah, Omi-Omi. It’s a date. Why, you’ve got other plans?”

“I –” Sakusa nearly chokes with the sheer amount of affection he feels. “I found your lost documents. We’ll need to figure out fake ones to get them off your trail. Is hot pot supposed to be the payment for my services?”

“Sure, we can work all of that out durin’ dinner, but I’ve got a long list of what I need to do to make the centuries up t’you,” Atsumu replies, too innocently, and Sakusa feels his ears heat up.

“We’ll start with dinner first.”

“First of many, yeah?” He can hear the smile in Atsumu’s voice, and Sakusa’s biting his lip so hard trying not to smile himself that he’s worried he might draw blood.

They hang up after exchanging details before Sakusa is making his way out of the museum, nearly running, feeling the ridiculous inexplicable urge to burst out laughing.

The thing about immortality is that when you live long enough, nothing surprises you anymore.

The _best_ thing about immortality is that you’re always proven wrong.

**Author's Note:**

> title from [spotlight](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kw56LGfrf4A) by jessie ware.
> 
> this is based on a [tumblr post](https://kayvsworld.tumblr.com/post/616944618022567936/thinking-abt-immortality-and-how-meticulously) that says: 
> 
> **kayvsworld:** Thinking abt immortality and how meticulously you’d have to keep track of all of your shit so some nosy historian didnt spot your old journal or coat or copy of a book and call an infuriating time-based finders keepers
> 
> “It’s two hundred years old” they say. “It’s essentially public property” they say. It’s a letter you sent to your friend and it’s in a museum now and you’re screaming
> 
>  **galwednesday:** Why are vampire stories always I Want To Drink The Sexy Neck Milkshake and never two vampires texting about the passionate letter one wrote to the other in 1863 but never sent that the other just saw in the Smithsonian’s fall exhibition on Love Through the Ages and what the _fuck_ , Claude, why didn’t you _say_ anything
> 
> thank you for reading! happy holidays, everyone!! <3


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